


Batman: Trust Issues

by UnderTheRedHood



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Backstory, Batfamily Feels, F/M, Jason Todd is Robin, Jason-Centric, bruce wayne the dad, somewhat AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 22:33:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4197507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheRedHood/pseuds/UnderTheRedHood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12-year-old Jason Todd doesn't have a person in the world to rely on.<br/>He has no real friends, nobody who'll accept him, and he lives all on his own.  That is... until Batman comes along.  All the sudden, he has Bruce, and Alfred, and Dick, and hell, even Barbara.  All of the sudden, he has a house to live in and food on the table that he didn't put there himself, and best of all-- people care about him now... right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story of how Jason Todd became the Red Hood; although, mostly it's about him as Robin, living with Bruce Wayne in the earlier years. A lot of this is based off of Post-Crisis origins, but honestly it's slightly AU because I'm incorporating my own plot, and also it's pretty hard to follow what's canon. As a character, Jason Todd leaves a lot up to interpretation, so this is my take on him. Thanks for reading.

There's nobody in the world like the Batman.

Everybody talks about him-- bad things, good things-- but mostly people are scared.  He's a ghost story to them.   I don't know if that's 'cause of the people I know-- if it's 'cause we're from Crime Alley and we match up to our name, or 'cause of his power.  People fear power-- those who have it, I mean.  And boy, does he have a lot.  If I had that much power, I just wouldn't know what to do with it.  And it's crazy that he uses it for helping people, even if he's not helping the people like me.  'Cause everyone else with that kind of power-- the Joker, Two-Face, Falcone-- all the serial killers and mass murderers and drug lords-- they aren't like him.

A friend of mine once said something that really stuck in my head.  He said, "you know, the only reason men like the Joker exist is to balance out folks like the Bat.  You think anybody's naturally that evil?  Nah, evil's created-- it's there to balance out the good."

Which makes you wonder if the Batman's any good at all.

I got to wondering if he was right about that.  I mean, it's the chicken and the egg, yeah?  We're never gonna know what came first.  Legends like the Batman-- man, part of me has to think that he's been around forever, and maybe before-- well maybe it was just that none of us had taken the step of noticing him.

I'm thinking all this while I unscrew the hubcaps from the tires of the Batmobile.  Man, imagine how much I could get for these.  Plus the bragging rights-- I'll be the kid that outsmarted the Batman.  Maybe people will start to notice me when that happens.  Maybe I can get big off that-- sell that story to the media-- get rich.  Jeez, I'm getting ahead of myself.

I already got one hubcap, and I'm coming back for a second when I feel him.  I don't know how else to say it.  It's like you know he's there for a second before you actually see him, because he's just got this cool aura about him.  Or maybe I just know because I'm getting anxious-- because I just _stole_ from the _Batman_ and how am I supposed to get away with that?

Well suddenly, he's there, in front of me.  I don't know what to say.  I don't really say anything for a second or two-- nah, I just bask in his glare because a glare from the Bat is ten times better than anything I've ever felt before.  It kinda gnaws at my stomach, and I'm over 80% sure this is the last thought I'm ever gonna have, but it's still-- amazing.

And then I get smart again, well maybe _smart_ isn't the right word exactly because, let's face it, I've might has well have committed _suicide_ , but I have enough smarts to drop the crowbar and hubcap and start running.

He moves like a shadow-- you know that?  It's true, what they say, he really is apart of the darkness.  I expect him to punch me or something, knock the wind out of me, but instead he just puts a hand on my shoulder.  It's a hard hand, I should add, but it doesn't exactly hurt.  And then, he's pushing me in the car like a cop might do, and I don't know what he's going to do with me because all this time he's not said a word.

That's the worst part.  That he doesn't talk.  Because it's just you and your thoughts in the silence of his scowl and you don't think you can really stand it but it's not like you're about to start up a conversation with the guy.  Still, it's got a really awful awesomeness about it.  Or maybe an awesome awfulness.  Either way.

When he drops me off with Commissioner Gordon-- yes, _the_ Commissioner Gordon-- everything is back to reality again.  But as he's walking away, and part of me knows I'm probably never gonna see him again, I can't help but think:

_There's nobody in the world like the Batman._

_TBC..._

 


	2. Chapter 2

Bruce freaking Wayne. The billionaire orphan. The playboy philanthropist (whatever the hell that means.) The mysterious celebrity. Everybody in the whole damn world knows this guy's name and now... now he wants to take _me_ in?

God, this has to be a joke. Or, maybe he's as creepy as all those tabloids say. Maybe Dick Grayson finally got smart and left and now _I'll_ be his new boy toy.

Bruce freaking Wayne.

He holds his hand out. I stare at it hesitantly, dazed by his presence. What am I supposed to do with it? Kiss it?

The lady from juvie puts a hand on my shoulder, digging her long fingernails into my skin. I flinch. Weakly, I grab his hand to shake it. The feel of it is familiar, but I think I would remember if I had met _Bruce Wayne_ before.

"It's nice to meet you, Jason," he says, his voice low but warmer than you'd expect. My dad used to say that Mr. Hot Shot Bruce Wayne was something close to psychopathic. Maybe he is, but he doesn't seem like it now. And anyways, it's not like my dad was ever right about anything.

Crap. I'm supposed to respond. They're both looking at me expectantly.

"Yeah-- um, you too, Mr. Wayne," I stutter.

"Bruce is fine."

"Yes, sir." Sir? Since when do I say "sir"? Who the hell says "sir" anyways? I swear this guy is doing something to make me act this way. I'm never like this. Who the hell cares what some rich-ass white guy thinks? I mean, besides the media. And most adults. And the government. And-- never mind. Everybody cares what rich-ass white guys think.

But I'm _not_ everybody. I'm not supposed to be, anyways.

"Jason, I would like to provide you a foster home, at least for the time being," he tells me.

I frown, all the sudden annoyed, "I'm not some charity case, you know. You don't get to show me off to your bourgeois friends to prove some sort of point of your kindness. I'm not going to be your trophy kid."

For a second, I expect him to slap me. His eyes seem dark and brooding and I flinch.

"Jason!" the lady screams. "Apologize this instant!"

"No, no," Bruce says, waving a hand, "it's okay. Those are perfectly valid concerns. But," he turns towards me, his eyes softening once again, "I need you to know that I wouldn't do that. You're right, you aren't going to be a trophy kid. I respect you too much for that."

"Oh." I stare at my feet. I'm so dumb sometimes.

"Bourgeois," he chuckles, "where does a kid learn a word like that?"

I shrug, trying to hide my smirk, "I'm not dumb, you know."

"Of course," he says, his voice lowering, "I wouldn't ever doubt that."

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

I _really_ need a smoke.

It’s the only coherent thought I’m able to have during my first dinner with Mr. Bruce Wayne.

Well that, and how freaking _huge_ his dinner table is.  And how his butler looks like he has a stick up his ass and into his nose.  Maybe that’s why he can’t seem to lower his chin.  Oh and, jeez, who has a butler these days?  I wonder if they’re screwing.  Damn, that’s gross.  I bet the old guy hasn’t done it for decades.  I know that Bruce Wayne gets laid a lot.  I mean, he’s always on the cover of magazines with some new chick.  I think he has a thing for blondes, but then again: who doesn’t?  And what’s with those huge portraits on the wall to the side of us?  What’s in this food?  Jeez, I’ve never had something so good in my life.  

“Jason,” he says with a stiff voice.

I keep my eyes on the table, “yeah?”

“I understand this has all been rather abrupt,” he reasons, “and that you must have some questions.  Feel free to ask.”

I pause, staring at him now with unblinking eyes.  I can’t help it when I blurt out, “why did you-- I mean, how did you know who I was-- I mean, when did you think-- where did you get the idea that--”

“You want to know what made me take notice of you,” he prompts.

“Yeah,” I grumble, feeling my face grow hot.

“Can you remember a few weeks ago?  I believe you encountered a certain Dark Knight?” He poses it like a question when we both know it’s a statement.  Of course I remember.  The real question is how he knows.

“Yeah.”

“Jason, I’ll be completely honest with you,” he begins, “I have formed a… sort of partnership with Batman.  Really, he's the one that took notice of you."

“Oh.” I’m out of words.  How often does a kid get into this situation?  Never, man.  What is up with my ability to run into the worst luck?  “So this is my punishment?  You’re gonna give me to him... ?”

Bruce Wayne’s expression changes rapidly, “you think… Oh no, God no.  Jason, this isn’t some form of punishment.  He isn’t angry with you, and neither am I.  But he does believe you… have potential.  I just want to give you an outlet to reach that potential.”

“What’s the catch?” I ask bluntly.  Alfred, in the corner of the room, turns his entire head to look at me.  Bruce Wayne narrows his eyes hesitantly.

“There is no catch.”

“Uh huh…”

“You’re going to have to trust me, Jason.  I’m not here to manipulate you.  Think of me as a kind of support system.”

It’s my turn to narrow my eyes.  Who does this guy think he is?  “Support system” is obviously code for “captivity.”  “Potential” just means he wants something from me.  I don’t know how stupid he must think I am, but I’m not falling for this.

“Yeah.”

…

I don’t notice the guy at first.  I’m just minding my own business, standing in the outskirts of Bruce Wayne’s huge-ass property.  There’s trees all around me, giving me a feeling of privacy.  I don’t hear him come up or anything.  It’s like he’s a statue.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says, practically giving me a heart attack.  I whip around to stare into his bright blue eyes.  And when I say bright-- I mean _bright_.  It’s like the freaking Caribbean Sea in there.

“How…” I take a breath, “who the hell are you?”

He raises his eyebrows.   This guy’s got to be a teenager, or at least in his early twenties.  How the hell did he get onto Mr. Bruce Wayne’s property?

“The name’s Dick,” he says casually, clearly unintimidated by me.

“Grayson?” I ask in astonishment.  Well, duh!

“So you’ve heard of me,” he says, giving me this crazy grin.

“Uh huh,” I say, recollecting my cool by taking a drag on the cigarette.

He gives me a look, “like I said before, you shouldn’t do that.”

“What?” I frown, looking down at my hand, “smoke?  Why not?”

“Bruce,” he shakes his head, “don’t get him started on that.”

I groan, “he’s not one of those, is he?”

“Yep.”

“I’m not going to just stop…  Does he really care?”

“Trust me, kid.  You don’t want to test him about that,” Dick laughs a little, “actually, you might just not want to test him at all.”

“I’m not afraid of Bruce Wayne,” I laugh too, but in a different kind of way.  “What’s he gonna do?”

“Don’t find out,” Dick warns, his voice somewhere between serious and light-hearted.  What’s a pretty-boy like him know, anyways?

“No offense, Mr. Grayson, but I think I can handle him.”

“It’s Jason, right?”

I nodd.

“Well Jason, you’ve got a lot to learn about this place.”  Before I can blink, he’s got the cigarette, which he drops on the ground and stamps it out.  He puts my lighter in his shirt pocket, and the pack in the back of his jeans.

I scowl, “how did-- hey!”

“You’re gonna thank me later, kid,” he assures me, punching my shoulder lightly.  He leaves before I can say anything else.

Damnit.  I’m starting to hate this place more and more.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

I can’t sleep.  Not with the heavy beat of the hand on the clock, and the way the hot air sticks to my skin, suppressing oxygen from reaching my lungs, like I’m trapped in a box or something--

I sit up abruptly, starting to feel panicky.  I’ve never really told anyone this before, but I’m pretty claustrophobic.  I hate the feeling of confinement, you know?  That’d be the worst way to die: slowly choking on the heaviness of your own breath.  Jeez, I just got the chills.

Getting up from the queen-sized mattress Bruce has got me sleeping in, I walk over to the giant windows of the room.  A faded grey has settled over the landscape, the trees hazy against the greenness of their own leaves.  Nothing’s dead, but it doesn’t feel very alive either-- like everything else in this place.

I’d say Wayne Manor’s haunted, but it isn’t exactly that.  It feels like the house is only haunted when Bruce is here.  And me too, maybe.  I’ve got my own band of ghosts.  Sometimes I get to wondering who doesn’t.

I’ve been here for two weeks.  Alfred keeps insisting that I unpack, but I don’t think I’m going to.  That’s the worst thing about foster homes: you’re supposed to act like it’s all the sudden, “yay me, I’ve been saved by the American way”, when really, everything is completely impermanent.  I could have to leave at any point, so there’s no reason to pretend that’s not true.

The feeling of claustrophobia hasn’t gone away.  I brush my red hair out of my eyes and try to keep my feet light as I walk down the hallway.  It’s late: like two or three in the morning, so I’m sure everybody else is asleep.  I mean, Alfred is a human, right?  Humans have to sleep.

The house sure seems empty.  In the night, when there’s no footsteps on wood floors or sunshine peering through the large window frames, it feels like a shell of a house.  I sit by the fireplace in the living room, curled up in one of the black leather chairs.  Above, up on the wall, there’s a portrait of a regal-looking couple.  The woman has pearls around her neck, her eyes soft and kind, her auburn hair barely reaching all the way down her neck.  The man has a sterner way about him, and I can see the similarity between Bruce and his father in this moment.  I wonder what they were like-- all those years ago, back before I was alive and when Bruce was just a kid too.  My mom once told me that when the Waynes died, the whole city grieved.  She said the pulse of Gotham, that low sort of darkness that almost feels like a heartbeat, skipped a beat when their bodies lay bloody in the street.

But, what would she know?  My mom didn’t know a thing.

My eyes start to droop, the fire feeling warm on my face.  It sure is lonely here, but maybe… maybe that’s just me.

_TBC..._

 


	5. Chapter 5

“We do not live in a pigsty, Master Jason,” Alfred reminds me, his eyes stern.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, jumping up to run a comb through my hair.  I never would’ve done that three weeks ago, but hey, when in Rome…

“Alfred, would you call Lucius, tell him I’m going to be running a little late,” Bruce says as he’s running down the stairs, adjusting his tie while Alfred looks at him the same way he’s been looking at me.

“Really, Master Bruce, you’d think all those years of etiquette and training would’ve taught you something about tardiness,” Alfred scolds, flipping an omelet he’s making for my breakfast.  What is it with rich people and eggs?  I’ve never had them so good in my life.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bruce says, mimicking me.  I can’t help but laugh, which makes Bruce’s face do something close to a smile.

He grabs a readily made cup of coffee on the counter, waving goodbye before rushing out the door.  Everything’s so fast-paced, it’s hard to keep track.

“Thanks Alf,” I say as I inhale the omelet, and gulp down a mug of coffee.  

When Alfred turns around, he shakes his head, “you’re much too young to be getting into such unhealthy habits, Master Jason.  And for goodness sake, slow down.  You’ll choke yourself to death and I’ll have to be the one to inform Master Bruce.”

I grin, shaking my head too, “just hide my body in the backyard, it’s too damn big for anybody to notice.”

“Language, Master Jason,” he reminds me, his eyebrows raised just enough that I can tell he’s not too serious.

“Right.  Say, I was thinking, maybe I could go back to one of the Gotham public schools…”

“May I ask why?”

I shrug, “I dunno.  The kids at Gotham Academy are douchb--” I stop myself, “pretentious jerks, I mean.”

He gives me another incredulous look, sighing and returning to wiping down the counters, “really, Master Jason, doesn’t seem a bit early to be making such harsh judgements?”

“No,” I say, laughing.

“I don’t think Master Bruce will approve of your switching schools.  However, we are both willing to offer assistance if you are having difficulty in the classes.”

“I’m not,” I argue, “I like school contrary to popular belief.  I mean… I like the concept of school.”

“Yes,” Alfred switches focus.  “Well we’d better be getting you there.  You wouldn’t want to be late.”

“Yeah, why would I want that?” I ask sarcastically.  He ignores me, taking the plate and mug that I’m done with.  I grab my backpack and zip up my hoodie.  If Alfred disapproves, he doesn’t say so.  I follow him to the car.

…

I like math, I do.  I like history too.  And English.  People always think I’m not smart, but that doesn’t mean I don’t try to be.  It’s just the odds are against it, you know?

The school day inches by.  I miss my old school, even if it was shit.  It was my shit.  I knew people there, and they knew me, and we didn’t mess with each other.  I had friends.  Now, here, nobody likes me.

I get in trouble during recess ‘cause of my hoodie.

“Children will wear the assigned uniform, Mr. Todd.”

I stare up at this weenie, this blond guy with a tall neck who apparently thinks he owns me, “I am wearing your stupid uniform!”

“Excuse me, but that is not an appropriate way to speak to an adult.”

“Sorry,” I cough, smirking, “sir.  But I’m wearing your clothes.  What does it matter if I’m wearing somethin’ over it?”

He shakes his head, “remove your sweater or I will be forced to call your parents.”

“He’s not my dad,” I tell him, begrudgingly pulling off my hood.  Who does this asshat think he is?  Why do people like that always got it in their heads that they’re somehow better than the rest of us?  

What makes you superior, _sir_?

I don’t say anything else.

…

When Alfred picks me up, I’m in a bad mood.  It was a crappy day, full of crappy, snobby people.  Ugh.

“How was your day, Master Jason?” He asks as we head down the main road.

“Fine.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“Sure.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Nah.”

He looks at me, but his eyes are soft and he doesn’t say anything else.  

 _Everything feels all hopeless inside, like the world just doesn’t do anything but suck,_ I want to say, but I don’t got a person to say it to.  I’m all alone.

Listen to me, moping around like some stuck-up loser!  I’ve got to get moving, gotta get this feeling out of my head.  Everything’s in your head, you know that?  I don’t believe in having hearts or souls controlling your emotions.  ‘Cause emotions are just thoughts, thoughts you put a label on and suddenly you’re feeling all sorts of things.  I don’t need to feel those things.

I don’t feel like telling Alfred where I am, he’ll figure it out if he cares enough.  Plus there’s something nice about nobody knowing, like you’re free or something.  So instead I just head out the back doors, the ones that are glass and swing way open.  I don’t even bother to be quiet about shutting them, ‘cause even though I didn’t tell Alfred, I’m not hiding it either.

I like the feeling of just running.  You’ve got nowhere to go and nobody’s chasing you, you just run.  There’s something great about that.  Sometimes maybe we just gotta find some sort of relief in the little, stupid things.

Once I get closer to the gates, I scale one of the trees.  The leaves are beginning to fall off, turning brown and orange and red.  My mom always says her favorite season was Autumn, I mean, she used to say that.  Sometimes on the really good days, she’d take a walk with me just to see the leaves.  It was always kinda grimy, and men were always catcalling her, but in those moments, she just focused on me and the trees.

I miss her for a second before I realize how stupid that is.  It’s better to be alone for real, than alone when you have people around you.  I don’t even need people anyways.

TBC

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to mention that while some of these scenes are actually based on canon events and/or dialogue, and some of this is me filling in blank spaces, I have changed somethings to fit my story so it is an AU. I've chosen to keep Jason's backstory mostly post-crisis, but there are aspects from all versions and revamps.

"You've got to be kidding me!" I hear Barbara groan in the next room over. Yeah, that's right: Barbara Gordon, as in the Commissioner's daughter. And, apparently, Dick Grayson's girlfriend. Or, at least, it seems like it. But maybe Dick's just kind of a manslut, because he seems to be hanging off everybody.

"Jesus, Babs, lower your voice," he hisses, suddenly under the delusion that I can't hear the entire conversation.

Barbara pauses-- my guess is she's either making out with Dick or glaring at him, "Bruce-- you can't take care of a kid right now! We have to focus on the more urgent matters at hand, right?" What is she even talking about?

Bruce clears his throat, "can we help you, Jason?"

"Damnit," I mutter under my breath as I climb out from the corner of the kitchen, "how does he do that?"

Based on the reaction of all three people standing in front of me: it wasn't really that under my breath. Only, they look more amused than mad so I think I'm good.

"Do you need something, kiddo?" Dick asks, his voice about three pitches higher than before.

I roll my eyes, "don't call me 'kiddo'."

Dick raises his hands defensively, as if I've just attacked him. Ugh. Freaking Dick Grayson and his freaking face can shove it up--

"Maybe this hasn't been made clear yet," Bruce says, his tone commanding, "but we do not eavesdrop in this household."

3 things, Mr. Bruce Wayne:

this is not a house, this is a freaking mansion.

maybe you don't 'eavesdrop' but I do

"You were talking about me," I argue.

"It doesn't matter what we were discussing," he tells me, sounding stern but aggravatingly calm, "this is a private conversation between the three of us, and I don't appreciate deceptiveness."

My cheeks feel hot, "whatever."

Dick's face-- with his raised eyebrows and hinting head gesture-- reminds me to say, "I mean, sorry... uh, sir."

That stupid bitch Barbara looks down at me like I'm total trash. I want to raise my middle finger but in total honesty, I'm a little terrified by Bruce and even Dick. Not that they'll ever get to know it.

"I'm gonna go out to the gardens, if that's okay," I mutter, desperate to leave.

He nods, "check in with Alfred to see when dinner will be served."

"Uh-huh."

I practically run out of that goddamn room with those freaking people and their freaking gossip. I don't check in with Alfred-- I'm such a rebel, obviously.

I've managed to behold another pack of precious smokes. After Dick so rudely took my first one, it took me a total of two weeks to get another. Apparently kids at "Gotham Academy" don't smoke. Lame. Everybody's so stuck up here. You have to be like a multi-millionaire to live in this part of town, and boy do they know it. I haven't met a single person even tolerable.

I want to go home, but I don't got a home to go to. That's the worst part, that nobody wants me more than these folks and they don't want me at all.


	7. Chapter 7

This has got to be the coolest thing a kid's ever seen. Especially a kid like me. Holy goddamn.

"Jason," Bruce says uncertainly, his voice blatantly familiar. Of course! How come it didn't occur to me before?

"Yeah," I breathe, my feet suddenly unsteady. My arms are shaking. I hope he can't tell. Who am I kidding? He's Batman, of course he can tell!

Oh.

My.

God.

He's Batman.

"So you really do live in a bat cave," I say after another long moment of silence.

He does something close to smiling, "yes."

Uneasiness settles over my shoulders, "so..." only there's too much to say so I can't come up with a single thing. After a beat, I stammer, "Dick is Robin then?"

"Was." Bruce corrects me immediately, hurt in his eyes.

Ouch.  Okay then. Remind me not to bring that up.

"Why did-- why are you showing me this?" I blurt out stupidly.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. Now that I know the truth, I can see how much of a charade Bruce Wayne must be. Down here, there's a certain darkness in his eyes that seems so natural, like it was there all along. I wonder which is more of a mask: his cowl, or the smile he puts on every day.

I look up, shaking my head when I realize he's taking, "-going to be staying, then you might as well know. The truth is, ever since I first saw you stealing my tires, I had the intention of-- of," he gestures around us, "this."

I try to take a step back, "w-wait. Staying?"

He scratches his neck, "I was thinking-- well if you wanted to."

"Like," my heart is pounding against my ribs, "like _staying_ staying? For good?"

"Yes." He pauses, probably waiting for me to catch up and say something. When I don't, he adds, "I don't want to pressure you into any decision. It's just... Well, the Manor is better with you around."

I swallow the lump in my throat, finally able to react. I grin stupidly, unable to conceal it. This all... it's gotta be fake, a dream, _something_.

"I..." I stutter, "I'd like to."

TBC...


End file.
